


Eidolon

by Angelwire



Series: From Artifice [9]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Dating, Developing Relationship, Dissociation, Gen, Kissing, Other, Trans Female Character, and a mystery character ooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 11:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelwire/pseuds/Angelwire
Summary: Now it's time for your debut, and you've poured more than enough thought into it by now. You have your name. Time to pay homage.They'd like that, right? Wherever they are?
Series: From Artifice [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1499456
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	1. New Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> i finally have inspiration for some more stuff so here we go i guess

This really has been a long time coming, hasn't it?

Looking down at the mirrored surface of your helmet, your new face, it takes a solid few seconds of concentration to really allow yourself to associate it with anyone else but... them. Your inspiration, as bizarre and slightly sickening as it is to say. Leaving out this one detail wasn't an option if you were going through with this. And you certainly _were_, because the suit was made, the name hardened in your mind, ready for release. You can't help but wonder what they would have to say if they saw you now. Probably a lot of teasing. Maybe they'd feel flattered?

After those brief thoughts, you find yourself laughing aloud, if quietly. Why were you talking as if they'd died? For all you knew, they were just retired somewhere. None of the rumors could say anything conclusive - that, you were unfortunately quite sure of. But if nothing else, it's not like _they_ were using the name anymore, alive or not.

This was a long time coming. Now it's time to reap the benefits of two years' preparation.

And so your mind vacates your body for greener pastures, leaving Serra and the advanced battlesuit encapsulating her in the back of the van.


	2. To Your Enjoyment (Or Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a date to attend to.

"As stunning as ever, truly," you utter to your date with a wide grin. "Now, I always knew you to be a refined woman, my good doctor, but you never told me you could dress up this finely. Holding out on me?"

The arm linked with yours tenses so as to pull you closer. "Come now, mon chéri, you know I would never do that to you. And what of yourself?" she winks. "That suit must have been quite expensive."

"I'm not the one who paid for it, thankfully," you laugh.

Honestly, what even were you thinking right now? When all facts were laid out in your mind, the flat truth is that you didn't need Dr. Mortum to accomplish this. That was a scary realization, because it meant you didn't bring her here for any reasons other than personal, and you didn't want to begin thinking about what _that_ meant. All the... issues, the ethical quandaries, they're so much easier to ignore when you can simply walk away and never deal with a person again after you've violated them in some sense or another. Sicko. Now there was no walking away. Eden and Dr. Mortum had become entangled. You didn't _want_ to untangle them.

_That_ is why she was here with you. Because you wanted her there.

"Anything amiss, mon chéri?" Dr. Mortum is paying attention. How much were you letting through to your face just now?

"Nothing all that much," you bring back the smirk instinctually, though it feels hollow. "I'm just not used to crowds quite like this."

"No? I would have pegged you for much more of a social butterfly," she replies.

"Yeah, that's the image, isn't it?" You allow your eyes to wander back over the crowd, all the faces you don't know and don't give a shit about. All the people who would judge you in any of a myriad ways if they knew you. Hard not to feel contempt when you think of them like that.

"It must be a well practiced one," notes Mortum. What is that look on her face? Searching?

Perhaps you can keep being open, just a little bit. Perhaps it feels way too good to let things slip. "I've had a lot of time to work on my image, yes. And a lot of cause to."

"Don't tell me you had a bit of an ugly duckling adolescence as well?" she chuckles. 'As well', hm?

"More than most."

"I can relate, mon chéri. But things are different now."

"Very different."

Dr. Mortum gives you another one of those looks, and you're not bothering to try and hide from them anymore. Let her see. A small penance for all the other deceptions you're piling up in this situation, this... relationship. Fuck. It's turning into a relationship now, isn't it? You even went out of your way to tell her that this was a proper date, that you were hoping to see how things progressed from here, the whole thing. That was probably stupid on a few levels. And immoral. Even wrapped in the comforts and constraints of Eden's flesh, you could never quite ditch the feeling that told you you were immoral for daring to get close to anyone. For implicitly asking them to accept you. Of course, that never stopped you from having some 'fun' here or there, but it was getting harder recently. Since things had gotten more intense with Mortum, you'd not seen anyone else as Eden at all.

The silence between you must have held awkwardly, because your date soon offered to fetch you a drink. You pull on another smile and thank her, leaving yourself all alone for the moment. Another one of those moments where you're grateful to be seen as a man, even if nothing approaching a _masculine_ one. Even the most egregious, effeminate men seemed to be afforded a certain very basic courtesy, and no one here was about to stoop to hurling homophobic slurs or making comments about the number of male genitalia you hypothetically enjoy putting in your mouth.

Not that you'd gotten those comments in quite a while, whether as Serra or as Eden. Serra's transition getting to a point where she... you... finally passed was what sealed that deal, and Eden's reputation took care of it on his end otherwise. At least at the locales that mattered. Just randomly on the street? At the supermarket? Sometimes you still got looks here or there - perhaps even because Eden himself could be nearly mistaken as transgender sometimes. At least you couldn't hear their filthy, bigoted thoughts in this body.

Dr. Mortum's return heralds the end of your depressing rumination. Why now, of all times, did you decide to think about such an unpleasant topic? This was a party. This was for your own enjoyment, at least for now. Yours and Mortum's.

"Your inner ugly duckling still shivering in discomfort, I take it?" she greets you, making an apparent note of your own expression.

"That's an odd expression," you find yourself chuckling as you accept the glass of champagne from her. "But apt, perhaps. What about you? Holding up well enough?"

"Oh, well enough indeed, mon chéri. I've had plenty of experience at gatherings such as this."

"Really?"

She shrugs. "Fundraisers are an unavoidable part of my line of work sometimes."

"And your own inner ugly duckling doesn't cause any trouble?" you smirk, taking a generous sip.

"Thankfully not for a long time now. Like I said, things are different." Mortum shifts her weight slightly. "I do not exactly look how I used to. It helps to think about how they do not see that ugly duckling, just what I currently am."

"Or at least what you show them," you give her a pointed look. "Same for everyone else here. All fake. Especially me." When Mortum doesn't immediately reply, you continue, "In any case, I actually know what you mean. Deriving a sense of security from the fact that they aren't looking at _you_, even if they're looking at you."

"My my, if we make a note of everything we seem to have in common, I fear you'll never get around to your boss' instructions," she laughs, almost in deflection. Almost. "But that just lets it make more sense each time."

This time you turn to face her more directly. "What?"

"My first impression of you," she clarifies with sincerity in her eyes. "I feel as if we are kindred spirits, somehow. And you keep showing me why."

"I..." In spite of the difficulty, the vulnerability, you somehow force yourself not to dismiss her words. You force yourself to meet her. "I feel the same way about you, oddly enough."

"Is that why you invited me here?"

"Hah. Am I becoming that obvious?"

"You did tell me that we were dating seriously now, back in the limo," she points out.

"And you agreed."

"That I did, mon chéri, that I did."


	3. To Your Awakening (To What?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here you finally are.

Breath rushes into your lungs as you plunge back into the chilled waters of Serra's body - your body. Right. You. A brief confusion results before you remember the armor, and you quickly activate its systems, the HUD in your helmet lighting up for your inspection. All good, just as you left it. Shaking away lingering thoughts of Mortum's lips pressed against yours (not yours, never yours, only Eden's), you bring yourself to your feet and decide instead to revel in how the battlesuit feels, wrapped around your repulsive skin. The good doctor certainly seems to have done her job well. All that's left is the field test now.

And so much more, really. So much that a grin splits your face beneath the helmet.

You'd already rehearsed exactly how you wanted to handle this situation, from start to finish. Gingerly stepping down onto harsh concrete from the opened back of the van, you brush out only a tender suggestion to the Rat King, and it takes care of the rest. You can still feel the sting of psychic acid from dripping nanovore fangs as you fish out your smoke bombs. There. Wouldn't do to have your new self be seen in any less than the grandest, most enticing circumstances.

Now with the van turned to dust and smoke wafting up into the air, brief winds threatening to thin its concealment, you stride forward with all the confidence you could have ever imagined, wrapping the cape Dr. Mortum provided for you around your suit. By now, someone had spotted you, and the crowd's fears redoubled. Was this an attack on the gala from within? Without? Now it was apparently both.

It was funny to think about your current situation. The Rat King, curled up against the back of your mind, did wonders to help shield you from the worst of the crowd's cascading emotions. At one point, this would have set you trembling from the sheer weight of all their collected minds, you recall. Well, at one point you would have been the one trying to help these poor 'innocent' civilians stay safe, not the one endangering them. Dr. Mortum was right. Things are oh so very different now.

You don't bother saying anything. You don't do anything except advance, listening to the impact of your armored boots against the ground, to the noises of the rabble around you, their fears inflamed into panic at your slightest mental touch. Yes, the perfect opportunity to stir the pot. You're a mystery, and unknown agent, but an obvious threat all the same. A few short-lived sparks of recognition or suspicion light up amongst the crowd at the sight of the mask, but all are brushed aside in the moment of your triumphant stride inwards.

Oh, and finally, a pair of little minds that aren't quaking beneath your telepathic presence. Entirely, at least. The first two security guards to notice and reach you. Somehow, the way they draw their guns seems almost _cute_ now that you're this well protected. There are so many ways you could neutralize them, snuff them out, it was laughable they were even trying. But what would make the best impression? Your first, minor victory... in any event, you were committed to not killing any of them. The bombs you planted as Eden were just a distraction, and you were fairly confident that none of them led to any casualties. You wanted to be feared, yes, but not for being a bloodthirsty psychopath.

You also primarily wanted the massive paycheck this gala presented to you. That was pretty important.

A gunshot rings out. Oh, right, the security guards. Somehow you ended up forgetting their miserable little existences for a moment. They seem to have missed. Did that hit someone back there? You would rather not have the single death of the evening come from an incompetent guard, what the hell kind of image would that be?

You sigh, the sound coming out to an unsettling, altered cadence as you focus your thoughts ahead of you. How far you've come. How trivial it was to single their minds out, concentrate a bare fraction of your intentions into them, trigger every little facet of desperate paranoia lurking in their minds and let them see the greatest threat here - each other. You walk past with a malicious smile as the pair completely ignore you, faces contorted in a malignancy you know already existed inside them. Suddenly far too engaged with the utter bastard at their side, aren't they. And you, thrilled at the sheer ease of it all. The Rat King had proven itself a great help already, but the undeniable fact was that you'd grown powerful now, all on your own. The thought sent a tingle of pleasure down your spine.

Exactly. You could do this. Don't get hung up on anything else. Leave Ortega, leave Mortum's kiss, leave your own flaws (your artificiality, everything) for another day. Right now you are a new woman.

Something catches your attention from the corner of your vision. Speaking of the good doctor, there she was, holding an unconscious Eden dutifully. And oh, she is not happy. At first you want to widen the grin under your helmet, but you pause instead, and the smile leaves your features entirely. The sight of Dr. Mortum glaring daggers at you was more viscerally unpleasant than you were expecting. It almost ruins your good mood, in fact.

Resisting the urge to shake your head, you continue on. No use in getting hung up on it. Eden could be safely discarded after tonight, anyways. Leave the good doctor and how you will handle her for later. You have money to collect.

It's strange that the first identifiable emotion in your heart now is some form of irritation. Or anger, of a brief, simmering sort. The attention of the cameras, the fear of the crowd around you as you enter the museum proper, all of it should have been intoxicating; it was exactly what you'd been hoping for. It was enjoyable. Thrilling. Made you want to cackle from sheer ecstasy in the heat of this powerful moment. But something inside you prevented that revelry. You did not laugh. You did not carry yourself as if high off your own successful entrance. You were torn, and each surge of excitement in your body came with a corresponding note of negativity to downplay it. _That_ was the thing irritating you.

With a soft exhale and a softer decision, you once again lean your psychic weight into the surrounding space, trusting the Rat King to filter out all the worst of it before that feedback could cripple you. Yes, once upon a time this _would_ have crippled you, absolutely floored you, left you with one hell of a recovery afterwards. Now all you can do is remember Mortum's words for a second time as you impress your command into a single word.

"Move."

Your voice is that of an evil spirit. Your mind forces their obedience. Their anxieties flare up again, and the crowd retreats eagerly, vacating the museum and leaving it as your prize. Perfect. Somehow, the irritation lifts a bit now that you're essentially alone in here. In spite of the lack of free time on your hands, you decide to take a moment to breathe deeply and center yourself again. All is going well. You feel fairly good right now, all things told. That's how it should be. And really, no need to rush yourself into a frenzy of your own.

Just like your namesake, you weren't allowed to make mistakes.

The smile returns to your face - though whether genuine or hollow, you can't even tell for yourself - as you stride across the room, aiming for your target. They'd filled a glass model of the museum to the brim with money, a perfectly sickening display of wealth and 'charity'. And what percentage of their earnings did these sums represent? Scant fractions each. The wealthy never gave more than needed for good press. That was really unfortunate for you, because you were going to need all the resources you could get your hands on if you wanted this crusade to succeed. Justice was a far better cause than some fucking museum anyways. They should be thanking you, if anything.

Your nanovores are as insatiable as ever, and it takes a moment of dedicated concentration to keep them from accidentally ruining any of the money - _your_ money - as you disintegrate the padlock. Restraint, that was the key. No heroes had shown up yet, but that just meant they were overdue for an appearance. By your calculations, Herald was the most likely one to arrive first. Thus, you made sure to position yourself as openly as possible to encourage a flying charge as you began shoveling ridiculous wads of cash into the freshly opened bag. Old habits die hard, eh? Encourage others to make reckless, stupid moves, then capitalize on them. And you know Herald is going to be itching for something reckless and stupid when he arrives.

And speak of the devil, he arrives, you note as his thoughts ping against your awareness. Up on the balcony. You briefly entertain the question of why he took this long to show up. Perhaps to get into uniform? What vanity. Not that you, right now, should be judging anyone else for that.

The pulse of adrenaline lights up the back of your head like a signal flare as Herald makes his move. Stupid, loud child.

Your timing is perfect. The cape is perfect too, its presence and clever use blinding the younger hero just long enough to ensure he barrels straight into the glass model, with you sidestepping out of the way.

Part of you wants to giggle at the sight, because really, it is quite funny. The rest of you sinks down in another, heavier pang of wrongness. What the hell was going on with you tonight? Where were all these split emotions coming from? Why couldn't you remember how you were supposed to feel?

No answers to your questions. Nothing forthcoming, anyways. You'd have to think about this on your own time.

Turning towards the exit, bag in hand, you make sure to provide a proper flourish as you strut out onto your preferred stage. The news choppers would be arriving soon, and you had every intention of giving them their fill tonight. You really wanted to be seen, for once in your life.

Your cape flutters in the sudden wind now that you're outside. Herald is getting to his feet behind you. Good.

Follow, boy.


	4. To Your Enjoyment (And More)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember the moment.

"Let's go somewhere more quiet, no?"

"Sure-" you start, the agreement cut off as you find yourself swept off into a neighboring hallway. That was a surprise. Both in terms of the brief loss of cool and the display of strength. But the latter was a good surprise. You had to admit it left you feeling rather flustered, a slight heat to your cheeks, a shortness to your breath. Eden seemed to have some... preferences, there. Serra's might be different. Funny how you don't even know at the moment, because you never experimented that much, not even with Ortega. At least the experience she _did_ give you helped cement how much you loved being kissed. And touched. At least when it was safe.

"Close call," Mortum announced, as if that were explanation enough. All of a sudden she was calm again. "My apologies."

"Close to what? Did someone recognize you?"

She shook her head. "No, or at least I am fairly certain she did not, but I'd rather take no chances, if you know what I mean."

"I do. Besides, can't say I mind being tossed around a bit," you flash her a teasing wink. The two of you share a brief laugh at that.

"Good to know, mon chéri. Good to know indeed."

"Really now, my dear doctor?" You smile, a laugh hidden somewhere in the words but not escaping yet. Something else, too, but...

"Of course, why wouldn't it be?" Dr. Mortum's smile grows wider.

"Because it's... interest. Blatant interest, in me," you say honestly. Truth fades your smile a bit. "That's not something I'm used to."

"Now that's curious," her voice drops a notch as she steps closer. "Does no one else see what's right in front of me?"

You chuckle softly to release the tension. "People are often stupid and see what they want to see."

Mortum continues closing this distance between the two of you, a hesitance to her steps as if she were afraid of scaring you away. That's why you hold your ground so firmly. That's why you lean in just the faintest bit as her touch meets your cheek. She wants to gauge your reactions? You'll give her what she's looking for.

"Indeed. That is why most people are not worth my time."

"Most people would have sent me running for the hills by now."

"And yet here you are."

"Here I am," you breathe out, delivering her a challenge in your unbroken stare. In the slight tilt of your head. In the flush you know still lingers on your cheeks.

After a brief pause, Dr. Mortum leans in to kiss you. Just the briefest of contacts first, always attentive to your wants in the moment, to whether you pull away, but you never do. You press into her, and she presses back in turn, the kiss deepening into something warm and heavy and so intoxicating to your brain. Every inch of your skin begins yearning for the contact. Its an almost - _almost_ \- alien compulsion to your experiences as Eden, something you don't remember feeling for anyone except perhaps Ortega, but... it was always muddled, then. Inhibited. You knew you couldn't get as close as you wanted because of your body, but nothing like that could stop you now.

Not in this body. Not with this woman. Not as Eden.

That means you're safe to admit when you want something, and you sure as hell seem to want this. Your near-desperation surprises even you as you pull Mortum closer, deepen the kiss with a passion you didn't think you could express to another person like this. It made no sense. What made Mortum different? What made you want this with her on such a foundational level? None of your experiments with other women at your apartment had prompted such feelings in you before. Hell, you weren't even sure how much you _liked_ such indulgences at the end of the day, before now. Apparently your desires didn't wither away after Ortega. Apparently there's still something in there.

It takes a while before you can bring yourself to break the kiss, and a halfhearted sense of regret at not being able to keep up the contact worms its way inside you. God _damn_.

"So..." Dr. Mortum breaks the ensuing silence first, the smile on her lips a tender, uncertain crescent.

"So... that happened." You clear your throat a little to dispel the embarrassment of your blatant neediness.

"I hope that was something that might possibly have been to your liking?" Oh, how endearing, was she really still that unsure about it? Maybe you hadn't been as blatant as you were imagining. You reach out to touch her cheek in an echo of her previous contact, something you hoped would reassure her. Something you hoped might communicate what words just couldn't for you.

You resolve to remember this moment.


	5. To Your Awakening (And Future)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember this victory.

Herald takes a step forward, and you refocus your attention on him. Now that your money's safely stashed, you can get back to the little details, like how you want to pound this piece of shit twink into paste. (why did you just call him a twink)

"Now, I suppose we should get on with it," you murmur gently, intended for nobody but yourself. It was a display of something strange that you weren't sure you wanted Herald to pick up on, but he did anyways, like the asshole he is. Did he have enhanced hearing on top of the other stuff? Perhaps something to check on later.

"Who are you, anyways?" Herald asks. His mind and face are both alight with certain suspicions you couldn't help but plant just with this appearance, as off-base as it necessarily was due to the armor. He was also somewhat confused. Wondering if there was a memo he missed, a briefing he should have remembered about you?

Unfortunately, you're not about to ease that line of questioning for him. You simply stand there, staring from behind the slightly too familiar helmet, allowing the silence to work its magic. Plus, it never hurt to take your time examining a foe, if you had the opportunity. As soon as Herald's body language begins shifting from wary to frustrated, you deign to speak up.

"How ignorant," you mutter, allowing the inflection to drift towards the sort of menace your namesake usually avoided. "You are young, but are you so very ill informed? No research on the past enemies of the team you joined?"

That gets his mind to light up dazzlingly, exactly like you were hoping. It was complete bullshit you were trying to pull here, of course, but the more twisted the facts become, the harder it is for anyone to make sense of things. You didn't want to be instantly written off as just another legacy villain. You wanted at least a bit of theorycrafting about your true identity to read online later.

"I am Eidolon."

That settled it, in his mind. Coruscating suspicions settled into a neat line of confirmation - that his recognition wasn't out of place, that this was intentional, that even if you aren't the original, there's something going on here. What would that be? You're actually not sure, but just this level of obfuscation is satisfying enough. After all, it's not like you could ever pretend to be someone else with a very distinct ability, not when it came to anyone with half a brain.

"We'll have to see about that," Herald retorts, clenching his fists. Oh, how cute, he's trying to steel himself for this engagement. You could relate. You'd been there before, after all. Now you're on the other side, waiting for the daring hero to take that first step forward into battle.

He doesn't take long to oblige you on that.

Herald, as if responding to your implicit challenge, takes to the air powerfully, drawing gasps from the nearby reporters. He must feel so secure, being able to open such an unassailable gap at a moment's notice. He must feel so free. You wondered briefly how they could be compared, the freedom of Herald and the freedom of your namesake; you'd found yourself envious of their abilities more than once, back in the day. Now here you were again, only able to imagine what it must feel like to be able to move like that, with your own body.

But he didn't have the advantage he thought he had. Even if you couldn't track his position by the heat of active psyche, your HUD's tracking system made it trivial, marking his flight path with little red pinpricks. This was your fight to lose, now. With the media already creeping into position, poised to capture every delicious moment of your conflict, the time was now. Time to take Herald down.

"We will indeed," you finally acknowledge your opponent's previous words, cockily strutting out into the center of the cameras and spreading your arms. "Time to start the show!"

Just like before, giving Herald too good an opportunity to pass up, a perfect shot that you're all-too aware of. He had to have been getting wise to it by now, right? Your timing would be perfect, but he had to play along. And luckily, you had exactly the sort of tool that could guarantee he'd dance to your tune - telepathy. No need to hold back from having your fun with him for the moment.

Reaching out behind you, you wrap a tendril of thought around Herald's mind, registering plainly the envy that smoldered beneath the surface. It took only the slightest tug to heighten those emotions. Just as you thought, he was vain, _arrogant_. He already felt like he deserved the cameras' attentions most, so your aggravation of that feeling was child's play. You can't help the smile tugging up the corners of your lips as he comes to a snap decision to attack you.

Just the slightest little tweaks to a person's perception can make all the difference. In society, it's what allows you to be invisible even while you're speaking to someone, someone who no longer sees a reason to pay much attention to you or take note of your appearance. In battle, it's what leads to this result, Herald rushing full force into the illusion of your form standing just a couple steps to the left of your true position. Reporters scatter and cry out. Herald tries to pick himself up again, only to be greeted by your fist.

You were winning already. You were the obvious dominant, here, a threat, a possibility of failure for their dear hero which grew blood-chillingly more likely with each fumble of Herald's. Of course, you were the one throwing him off his game so badly, but they didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know it either. All he needed to take away from this fight was the lesson that he was no match for Eidolon, new or old, and that he'd be better served finding something else to do than waste your time opposing you. After all, you could push yourself and your morals breaking his body to eliminate him from the equation, or you could demoralize him and leave him relatively intact. Yes, when you thought of it that way, this was the _ethical_ way to defeat him.

Nevermind that it was also massively fun.

Effortlessly parrying another clumsy attempt at a punch, you shift his momentum into a throw, launching him into the air. That was no issue for him, not yet. Herald, of course, used the opportunity to build up speed for another attack, in that childishly telegraphed way he seemed to favor. Even still, the only issue for him at this point was the parked van you'd managed to keep from his notice, until the very moment when you sidestep his charge and allow him to impact it at full speed. All according to plan, except for the part where you had to haphazardly dodge the debris coming your way.

You walk forward again. You keep your eyes on him. You're not smiling now. Oh, Herald's still struggling for the moment, but he's trapped in the folds of twisted metal you graced him with. And he's... bleeding. With the way he winces, you're fairly certain a couple of his ribs are cracked now. A dislocated shoulder, maybe? As you approach, you can't help the returning feelings of discontent marring the pleasure of your victory. Was this too vicious? Were you getting too carried away? An involuntary growl escapes your lips as he once again tries and fails to extricate himself, and in that moment of vulnerability, you arrive.

Now you suddenly can't tell what the big deal is. You hated this asshole, remember? Pressing your foot down onto his damaged body rewards you with an unexpected scream, a scream which puts a grin on your face in spite of all the previous moment's misgivings. Now you must certainly look the part of the victor to everyone out there. Now you must look like a consummate savage.

Gritting your teeth past the threat of another mood swing to ruin your evening, you pull your leg back a bit.

"Time for a nap."

One last sharp kick to the jaw snaps his head against the wreckage, drags him down into sleep's embrace.


	6. To Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you do this?

"Get away from him, you scum." That voice... is it really you that's the recipient of such words? You turn to face her. Ortega. She stands at the ready, fists raised, eyes locked on you. Where an open, accessible mind should otherwise be, only the familiar, static hum of Ortega's presence graces your telepathic senses. Not like you need to read her thoughts to interpret her emotions. The fury etched into her features conveys that well enough.

You can't help feeling even more strange and disjointed than before.

That's Julia Ortega right in front of you, looking at you as a threat. A hated adversary. Someone to grind into the dirt and bring to 'justice'. You'd seen such a face from her before, but never leveled _at_ you. Like with Dr. Mortum earlier, it was unsettling in a way that frankly shouldn't have affected you anymore. Not since you decided to follow the path you're on now.

But perhaps, since you decided to accept that old name again...

Suppressing a sigh, you get back into character.

"And what, deal with you instead?" You make a point of inspecting her tattered finery. "At least your foolish companion here had the good sense to dress the part. Are you really supposed to be a hero?"

"I'm hero enough to take you down, dress or no," she assures you, flashing you a dangerous smile. At first you return it, and you're glad she can't see beneath the mask, because you know this isn't something to smile at. You've gotten too used to reciprocating her displays of affection. To bantering with her. That could prove dangerous for you, if you continue slipping up like that.

"I certainly hope so, my lovely Marshal," you intone, drawing off old memories of the original Eidolon's speech. And definitely not off your own desires towards Julia. In any event, the nostalgic appellation definitely brought something else to Ortega's face, and you could imagine gears turning in her head similar to the ones you read off Herald.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," says Ortega. The smile is still there, but now she's slowly repositioning herself, trying to draw you away from Herald even as she talks. "I haven't heard anyone call me that in a very long time."

"I'd like to think I'm drawing off old memories tonight. Making new ones. Herald, certainly, will remember the way I ground him into dust."

Charge was nothing if not experienced, and that experience gave her more of a level head to counteract her own reckless nature, but it didn't stop her from launching into an attack at your provocation. The flurry of her assault is enough to drive you back a bit, now at an obvious disadvantage without your telepathic readings to guide you. That, if nothing else, should confirm to her who she is _not_ fighting. But you're not at a total disadvantage. Not with how many times you've trained with her, fought alongside her, familiarized yourself with her fighting style and its quirks. Just like you remember, a right hook followed by a left jab, electricity discharging harmlessly over the insulated surface of your armor.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten, my lovely Marshal? You'll have to do better than this to take me down." Your first blow barely misses, but the way she dodges hasn't changed at all either, and it's a simple matter to aim where it feels natural. The kick connects. Ortega is sent skidding across the ground.

You're really doing this, aren't you?

Fighting Ortega?

You really could win, couldn't you?

Do you want to?

"I could say the same," Ortega retorts with all the same bravado as ever, flexing her shoulder to shake out the pain. "That new armor looks like it's compensating for something. Or maybe you just can't live up to those old memories without it." If it weren't for the fact that you new this was how she liked to push you off balance (and that you essentially gave her the ammo for this one), you might have been a lot more bothered by her words.

That's not going to work on you. You're not going to _let it_ work on you.

Ortega once again moves first, and you welcome the lead she provides to this rhythm you call a fight. Once it would have been simple sparring, and back then, you were never able to keep up with her pace - she was stronger, faster, and conveniently negated your telepathic advantage. You always lost in the end.

But this isn't then. This is now. And now you're the one with the stronger cards, the one negating her electricity with careful insulating, outdoing both her own strength and speed, countering every well-remembered move Ortega tries to bring to bear against you. Now the cameras can't get enough of you, and you can't get enough of them. They chronicle your fight hungrily, flashes going off like a constant background of fireworks to commemorate your impending victory over yet another Ranger, the line of reporters and cameramen ebbing and flowing as your body and Ortega's dance around each other.

Thing is, your armor still isn't moving as fast as it could. You almost don't want to upset the rhythm you've settled into with her. Almost isn't enough to dissuade you, though. Rerouting power through your suit to the right systems immediately has its effects on the world, everything around you slowing down as your own perception magnifies. Each heartbeat, pounding (one, two); each footstep, a thunder (one, two); your blood electrified, your stride lengthened, boots struggling to find purchase as you push your body to a demonic sense of pace.

Utterly. Magnificent.

Ortega's eyes are still locked on you, still paying attention. She ducks low to avoid your next blow, then breathes out a quiet Spanish curse as you trivially leap over her leg sweep. She's still in this, alright, and that's what you always loved about her. She never even flinched when the odds started stacking against her. More than that, it was like this woman had no conception of it, least of all with you, you who once again provides her a partner for the same fluid, graceful routine you'd learned together those years ago. You revel in the physicality of it. By the looks of the smile on Ortega's face, she revels in it too.

But you're not quite able to muster a smile right now, even still. The recurring intrusive thoughts make sure you can never lose yourself in the moment _quite_ enough for that. As thrilling as it is to truly match Ortega blow for blow, be fast enough to parry her strikes, have the reflexes to leap back for distance at the right time... it never becomes good enough. It never stops irking you in some way. If anything, the thrill starts fading, and that's what makes you realize it.

Fighting her isn't satisfying you.

Crouching atop a wrecked car, your eyes scan over Ortega's form as she takes a moment to steady herself. She seems fairly winded by now. Probably bruised. Probably starting to get worn out. She won't be able to last all that long at this rate, especially if you press your advantage now. And by all reckoning, you should, you absolutely should. The same logic you applied to Herald should apply here. If you want Ortega to stay away, you should defeat her so completely that she loses the delusion of being able to contest you.

You jump down. You clear the distance between you, most of the distance, displaying only a few easy leaps to close that gap, and Ortega's ready for you the entire time. By now, she should feel like she's got a good idea of your capabilities. That false confidence is what allows her to stall so blatantly. Waiting for her backup to show up? Lady Argent, maybe? If she showed up while Ortega was still on her feet, that would spell trouble for you, even like this. You need to apply that logic of yours quickly and just finish her off.

Pressing in with another attack, you leave an opening for Ortega to take advantage of. She goes for it. It hurts, but no more than you were already willing to suffer in order to get a good grip on your opponent's arm. You yank her closer before delivering what you hope is a knockout blow. She lets out another string of Spanish oaths as she stumbles backwards; your fist connected, but off target, and now her nose is probably broken. Christ. Why was she making you hurt her like this, over and over and over again.

"Mierda..." Ortega's voice is pained as she glances back at the uncomfortably close media. "If I were you, I'd consider backing up a bit." As always, she looks beautifully heroic for the cameras. You never expected anything less from her. To your own chagrin, _that's_ what finally manages to draw a real smile from you.

Patiently waiting for the two of you to be properly 'alone' again, you cross your arms and keep eyes on Ortega. Now she's back to focusing on you again.

"You won't get away with this," her voice comes again, blood dripping down her lip. It doesn't escape your attention that it's the left hand that wipes it away, not the right; the right continues to hang limply at her side. Such a blatant sign of injury. Is she going to try and press this even with her arm like that? Christ.

_Christ_.

Stop resisting.

Moving in fast, unsure even of your own emotions, you launch into a series of attacks that Ortega is only barely able to deflect. There's not much left in her. Not much beyond frustration, at least. Even the reckless Julia Ortega must be realizing how much trouble she's in now. With her arm in such a state, she can't properly defend from your assault, and she has no hope of closing things with a conclusive electric blast. She's losing. You both know it.

So stop resisting.

"You haven't even told me why you're doing this..." The words are gasped out. Ortega is out of breath. She's losing. She won't stop fighting.

"No, and I have no intentions to." You just want to see her stop moving. Stop making this harder for herself. For _you_. Please.

"Not even if I ask nicely?" she smirks again.

"Give up, and maybe I will."

"Trust me, I'm not the giving up type."

_No shit_, you want to growl. Stubborn fucking woman. There's no one here to save her. No Sidestep to swoop in and pull her out of the fire. No, this time, you're the one she's too stupid to be properly afraid of, the one she refuses to admit defeat to. In those days, you admired her for it. You... liked her for it. The tenacity, the audacity, the wounds that chilled your blood in the moment but gave you opportunity to tend to her afterwards. That's what you should have been doing. Making it all better. Kissing her gently wherever it was safe. Not... not this.

Stop resisting. Please.

You didn't want to fight her. It wasn't her stubbornness that was the problem, you realize that now, it was your own damn feelings. Your memories, your instincts. Everything that keeps you from enjoying what should have been the most deliciously triumphant night of your life. Julia wasn't ruining it, you were.

The next time Ortega moves in for a feint, you can't manage to put much spirit into your defense - not that you need to. Most of your focus is on her face, on the minutiae of her expressions, body language, anything you can pick up on. The labored breath, the way her eyes track you, the way she reacts to each move you make. The way she tries out attacks as if she's more interested in your reaction to them. It's almost like she...

...is trying to figure out if she knows you.

Oh. Well. Of course. The name and style of speech you tried adopting couldn't put her off the trail for long, you coldly muse to yourself. And you've done nothing to actually make yourself _feel_ unfamiliar to her. This is the obvious result. And you felt calm. Why did you feel so calm, realizing that? Shouldn't it worry you?

Shouldn't she stop resisting by now?

You're not sure what comes over you next. This body hardly feels like yours anymore. It moves, but you're not sure if you're the one moving it or not. The next time Ortega goes in for an attack, you find yourself kicking her squarely in the chest, sending her skidding along the asphalt until she comes to an agonized halt. Not moving. Your stomach feels cold. You can't feel your own face.

Her hand twitches. She's still conscious. That fact drains away more of what little animation remains beneath your skin. Your limbs move as if belonging to an automaton, brushing the dust off your armor, and your eyes complement that action by idly, thoughtlessly checking on the readings in your HUD. Mostly green. Some orange warning indicators. Nothing serious. Nothing that would stop you from fighting. Some distant portion of your mind recognizes that as a good fact, but you're not sure why.

The cameras had retreated by now. A response to their hero's defeat. Spotlights from the choppers hovering above you follow along as you walk numbly over to Ortega's prone form.

Julia is alive still. Struggling for breath, but alive. That's something you find more immediately good than having functional armor.

"Who are you?" Ortega's words are hardly more than a whisper, but they impact you like a shout.

You don't know the answer to that. You don't know what to say. Should it be your name?

What is your name? Eidolon? The name you stole from someone else?

What is your name? Serra Bui? The name you took for yourself, a long time ago?

No, you simply have no answer. You can hardly keep thinking, keep your mind from blanking entirely, because you know of all things that would be ruinous. Repeat a loop of something concrete. Your breathing. The name Serra. That keeps stirring something in you, at least.

You're in pain. Your body is... in pain. Your heart hurts. Facts like those can ground you, too. Why does your heart hurt so much, looking at Julia as she is? As you made her? Exhausted, bleeding onto the ground, staring up at you and looking for the answers you can't give her. Why does it hurt. Why does it hurt. Figure it out, why does it hurt so fucking much.

You want her. You want Ortega. You want to go back to what you used to have, all the warmth and affection, the relationship, having a friend, having someone you could start letting in just a little closer.

Your body trembles of its own accord. You want her, but you can't have her, and it hurts. You hurt her, and it hurts. You're horrible. You barely manage to stop from hugging yourself, as much as it feels like you need to, because that would be worse than a simple prolonged silence.

But at least you don't need to give her an answer. You don't need to continue this. That realization impacts you as strongly as the previous, but this time, the feeling it gives is a stark, freeing relief. She's finally stopped resisting. Ortega's down for the count; you've _won_. And that means you don't need to lay another finger on her. You can just go pick up the money where you stashed it, and head off on your merry way. Thank god. Thank fuck. Thank everything. Your limbs finally start feeling like they're connected to you again, slowly.

Just in time to react to the sudden arrival of Lady Argent.


	7. Old Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't see them yet. They see you already.

The incessant drone of a 24 hour news station drums on in the background as a fit, light-skinned figure prepares dinner - a bowl of admittedly quite indulgent pasta, stirred attentively in its pot. Their gaze only occasionally strays over to the plasma television. It, along with the rest of the apartment, is of a subtly affluent quality, well decorated and indicative of a substantial cashflow. And a lack of impulse control.

Something on the broadcast catches their attention. An attack on the charity gala they heard about earlier. A villain? It made sense to them; back before their retirement, that would have seemed quite the tempting prize. But who was it? Someone established, or someone new? These sorts of subjects still interest them in spite of all their better instincts. That interest is what kept their eyes glued dangerously to the TV rather than their food. 'Dangerously' for anyone else, that is. For this figure, however, their hands moved deftly and with no lost efficacy even while paying complete attention to something else. Such concepts as danger ultimately were relative.

The appearance of the figure appearing on screen struck a nerve. This was definitely a newcomer, they figured, someone making a flashy debut for themself. Seemed to be wearing some sort of battlesuit. Was there something more to them than just the armor? And what about that mask? It seemed, at the very least, heavily inspired by... a certain retired villain's. Was that intentional or not?

Familiar. That was the theme of this event. The mask's design was familiar, the way this new villain moved was familiar, it all strikes a strange, nostalgic nerve in the figure currently preparing their favorite meal. Their expression scrunches up in contemplative frustration as they watch the scene unfold.

And then a certain string of words are picked up by the cameras.

"Who are you, anyways?"

"How ignorant. You are young, but are you so very ill-informed? No research on the past enemies of the team you joined?"

The figure, standing in their apartment, feels a pang of awareness - they know where this was going.

"I am Eidolon."

The figure sucks in a harsh, drawn-out breath.

Seems like someone is interested in bringing back old ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD ALRIGHT THIS WAS A LOT TO PUMP OUT IN A SINGLE EVENING BUT HERE WE ARE
> 
> and it all started with the single idea to add in an original character to Serra's backstory, a rival from her Sidestep days that provides her inspiration for her eventual villain debut. i think im gonna go back and actually write some Sidestep-era content now that ive started establishing this?
> 
> anyways as usual hope you enjoyed it. and hopefully this old rival idea is interesting to y'all


End file.
